


Inevitability Is In Our Blood

by jettiebettie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dream Symbolism, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Pre-Slash, Probable inaccurate portrayal of medical equipment, Red String of Fate, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jettiebettie/pseuds/jettiebettie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scent of blood clings to the back of his throat, strong and familiar. It hangs in the air like a fog so thick that he's surprised things aren't tinted red in his vision. But he knows who it belongs to, he can pick out the tell-tale essences of human, young and virile and afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitability Is In Our Blood

 The scent of blood clings to the back of his throat, strong and familiar. It hangs in the air like a fog so thick that he's surprised things aren't tinted red in his vision. But he knows who it belongs to, he can pick out the tell-tale essences of _human_ , young and virile and afraid.

"Stiles!" Derek calls out into the woods. There's no immediate reply and it sends him running through the trees. His heart is pounding with mounting anxiety and god _damn_ it why can't this kid ever stay out of the way and out of danger? The scent of blood gets stronger, almost choking him.

He almost misses the rogue omega coming at him from the opposite direction.

Derek skids to a halt, shifting and crouching down, letting out a roar. The omega hesitates, flexes his bloody claws, and decides he'd rather live to see another day. He tries to run to the side, but Derek is faster, cutting him off and grabbing him by the front. He throws the guy as hard as he can into a tree, causing it to crack and sag midway at the trunk. The omega falls to the ground, unconscious and his face shifting to normal.

Derek leaves him there. He can hear Isaac up ahead, voice shaky and panicked.

"Oh my god, don't die. Please don't die, Scott is going to kill me, Stiles!"

Stiles doesn't say anything. He can't for the slash marks across his throat, blood gushing through the wound with every beat of his heart and choked breath he makes. Isaac is frantically trying stem the flow, pressing his scarf against torn flesh. Derek runs toward them, pulling Isaac away and moving the scarf. He does what he can to apply pressure to the wound without cutting off Stiles' breathing all together. It's not easy. Stiles chokes once more, blood bubbling up from his mouth and down the side of his chin, but Derek doesn't let up. He glances back to Isaac.

"Call an ambulance," he tells him, and he's unsettled by how shaky his own voice is. Isaac hesitates for just a second and Derek can feel his own panic welling up. " _Call an ambulance_!" he roars. He may not be an alpha, but it sends Isaac into motion, fumbling his phone with bloody fingers. Derek looks back down and is frightened by how sickeningly pale Stiles is getting, the blood standing out painfully against his skin. But his eyes are still open, amazingly, staring almost blankly through the trees at the sky.

Somehow, despite the amount and overpowering scent of blood, Stiles holds on.

-

The Sheriff insists on giving more.

"You know I can't let you do that," Scott's mom says, wrapping the man's arm up.

"Just take whatever he needs, Melissa, please!" the Sheriff all but begs. The man's face is drawn with worry and fear, making him look much older. "You had a five car pile up this morning! The emergency blood drive isn't for another few hours-"

"We will get him stabilized, I promise! Hurting yourself isn't going to help him right now!"

Derek turns from the argument, rubbing his freshly scrubbed hands together. The smell of blood is still stubbornly clinging to his shirt and jeans, though, and it's starting to make him dizzy. Scott sits in a chair a few seats away from him, staring at the ground in sadness and frustration. He's AB+ and unable to give blood to help his friend and it's obviously killing him. He's called the others, but Lydia is the only one among them with a matching blood type, and she and Allison are in Redding. It'd be impractical for her to come at this point, not that that stopped her from dropping everything to get Allison to drive them back to Beacon Hills.

Well. Truthfully, Lydia isn't the only one.

Derek stands from his seat and approaches Melissa and the Sheriff in the middle of their argument, awkwardly reaching out to place a hand on the Sheriff's shoulder.

"What is it, son?" the Sheriff asks wearily as he turns and Derek can't help but feel like a kid again in the man's presence. How old was he when he last talked to the Sheriff directly? Fifteen and at a funeral to offer his practiced condolences to an officer who'd lost his wife.

_"What is it, son?"_

_"I'm sorry for your loss."_

"I can give blood," he says and his voice is almost timid in its assertion, as if he's not sure he has a right to be offering, but the Sheriff gets a hopeful look in his eyes even as Melissa steps forward.

"Are you sure that's not going to...?" she trails off, looking around at the people and nurses walking by them. But Derek knows what she's asking.

"Even if I were still an alpha, it doesn't really work like that," he explains.

And not five minutes later, he's sitting in a chair at Stiles' bedside. The boy is still worryingly pale, and the tubing down his throat is unsettling. It's weird seeing someone who's usually so damn wired just lie there still, the only movement being the up and down of his chest as a machine helps him breathe. Melissa carefully lays out more tubing, connecting it to one of Stiles IVs. Derek's not entirely sure what's what, but soon enough, she's pushing a needle gently into his arm.

"Okay," she says, pointing to a tiny valve. "This will get you going. I need to go do a quick round of this floor, but I'll be back as fast as I can. When you start to feel dizzy, I want you to turn it off and wait for me to come back. Do not take this out yourself," she warns, turning the valve. Blood begins to fill the tubing, traveling from Derek's arm to Stiles'. Melissa fiddles with his IVs some more, before turning to the Sheriff. "And you? You're going to go lie down."

"Melissa-"

"My hospital, my rules. I'll show you where the on-call room is. You can come back once you don't look like you're about to fall over." Melissa's tone leaves no room for argument, and the Sheriff sighs and gives in. He walks over to kiss his son's forehead and before walking around the bed to the door. Before he leaves, he places a hand on the back of Derek's neck in a firm but friendly manner.

"Thank you."

And then he and Melissa leave, and Derek is left with Stiles and beeping machines.

-

He doesn't know how much time passes. Five minutes? Fifteen? Longer? All he knows is that he does eventually start to feel it; he's not dizzy but he knows his body is beginning to respond to the blood loss. He should probably turn that valve now, like Scott's mom said. But then he glances up to Stiles' face.

He's still far too pale. There are dark smudges under his eyes and he looks ridiculously frail, when Derek knows he's anything but. Maybe just a bit more, he thinks.

Just a little more.

-

He's in the woods again, only something is different. It's the middle of the day, but everything around him seems washed out, colors and shadows alike.

He's pretty sure he's dreaming.

Nonetheless, he can still smell blood. It's not overwhelming anymore, but it's definitely there. He scents the air, trying to discern the location. He turns in place, determined to find the direction in which it is strongest.

And then he sees it.

A vibrant red string cuts through the trees from where he stands. Looking down, he sees one end tied around the crook of his arm. Cautiously, he touches it. It looks like yarn, but it's silky to the touch, running through his fingers like liquid, feeling pleasant and oddly warm. And it's connected to something deeper in the woods.

He starts to follow it. There is no hesitation in his steps, and he's surprised to find that there is no anxiety coursing through him, warning him of what might be at the other end. It feels almost natural to follow it, to let it guide him through the autumn trees and over rocks and small streams. Wherever it's leading him, he knows it's somewhere he'd eventually wind up, somewhere that feels heavily inevitable.

He's actually not surprised when he finally reaches a low rock and finds Stiles perched on top.

The boy is sitting with one leg under the other as it dangles over the edge, shoe skimming the ground. He has his lacrosse hoodie in his lap and he seems focused on sewing it up. With the red string that Derek's attached to.

"Hey," Derek says incredulously, waking closer to the rock. Stiles looks up to acknowledge his presence, but he doesn't seem jarred by Derek being there.

"What's up," the kid says nonchalantly, returning to his sewing.

"What are you doing?" Derek asks. He doesn't know why, but this string is important to him. It's important and Stiles is using it like mending thread.

"It's torn," Stiles says, lifting the hoodie a bit. "The collar got jacked up. I need to fix it or I'll be screwed once the season starts up."

"Well, do you have to use this?" Derek asks, gesturing to the string attached to his arm. Stiles shrugs and adds a couple more stitches.

"Why not? You offered," Stiles says.

Derek wants to tell him he did no such thing, but he stops himself. It looks like Stiles is almost done, so why not let him finish? Something tells him that this is just as important as his string. Stiles gives a triumphant sound on the last stitch, holding up the hoodie proudly for Derek to see.

"Good as new, right? Like it never even happened."

That's not quite accurate. The stitching of Derek's bright red string stands out against the faded scarlet of the garment's fabric along the collar. But Derek just nods, because it does indeed look a lot better. When Stiles pulls it over his head, both he and the hoodie are no longer washed out like the rest of the woods as their more vibrant colors bleed into being. Stiles gives him a big, somewhat goofy smile in his success and then proceeds to tie the end of the red string around the crook of his own arm.

Good, Derek thinks, though he's not sure why it makes him feel so much relief.

"I'm gonna sleep for a bit longer, but you should probably wake up now," Stiles says. Derek blinks and looks down at himself. His own colors have begun to fade, and it's more annoying than worrisome. "Thanks for the assist. I'll pay you back. Next save is on me."

Before Derek can ask him what he's talking about, he's being shaked by the shoulders and dragged into consciousness.

He starts for a second, unsure of how his head got onto Stiles' hospital bed, or why it feels so heavy.

"I told you to turn it off when you felt dizzy!" Melissa scolds, turning the valve and removing the needle from his arm. Derek feels hazy, but he tries to sit up anyway. Melissa helps him lean back further into the chair so that he's not at risk of toppling over. She's shoving something cold into his hands and it takes him a minute to realize it's a can of soda from the vending machine outside the room. "Of all the stupid..." Melissa mutters to herself as she checks on both him and Stiles.

Derek takes the chance to look up at the boy. No longer does he look sickly and miserable. Ignoring the thing still helping him breathe, he has a healthy flush to his face and down his neck, his body once again working with an adequate supply of blood. Derek feels an odd urge to look underneath the bandages at his throat, but he can barely manage a good grip on the can, let alone hope to coordinate movements. He'll be fine in just a few minutes, but for now he's a bit useless. He feels a little cold and sweaty, and appreciates the warmth of Melissa's hand on his forehand when she checks him over.

"That wasn't too bright," she says softly, her voice carrying a reprimand while her eyes are fond.

"We'll be alright," is all Derek can think to say before he closes his eyes and lets himself doze off.

**Author's Note:**

> If my symbolism were any more blatant, it would knock on your door, bend down on one knee, and ask for your hand in marriage. Right before it trashed your house.


End file.
